


14:43

by MajorityRim



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: James Bond and 007 are different from one another, James is a sweetie, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Mission Gone Wrong, Q's cats - Freeform, holiday destinations, this one is hard to tag uuuhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6798979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorityRim/pseuds/MajorityRim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Bora Bora, on the holiday James had planned for them, Q finds out just what that devious smile Bond had meant. </p>
<p>Before that, James and Quinton find a balance between work and home, between 007 and James, between the Quartermaster of MI6 and Quinton. They are two halves of one soul, an unstoppable force and madly in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	14:43

**Author's Note:**

> Quinton is the name that a Q I RP with uses, she's by far my favourite (I'm a little biased, she's my partner) so I decided to use that name. I find it a little easier than saying 'Q' all of the time instead, it helps the story flow a little better and it was important for this particular fic that he had a name. c: 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the fic!

James Bond was a man who killed without consequence, a man whose hands fit so perfectly around the neck of an enemy he was about to kill. He was a machine at times, perfectly tuned to the task at hand, there to destroy and to capture, working so perfectly that at times it was hard to imagine anything but the gun in his hand firing, specks of blood over him and his suit. The same as any double O agent really. There was no exception for James in that respect, no hidden meaning to the kills he accumulated while in active service. No real surprise in the way that the curve of his body moulded so well with the women that he took to bed. It was to be expected, or rather it was unexpected that he should do anything but that. Quinton had learnt to love both of them. They collided so violently at times, James unable to shake the agent inside, bringing it home with him, 007 unable to stay at work. But Quinton had learnt. He knew how to handle both, just as James knew how to handle both the Quartermaster and Quinton. They worked as a pair, or as two pairs, intertwined and in love. James and 007 and Quinton and Quartermaster. It worked somehow, and that was all that Quinton needed to know.

James Bond -007- went on missions, he acted as if he was in love with every woman he met, he killed others using the information that those women poured into him and then he went home, bruised and battered but proud that he had served his country well. This was all fact. It was all part of what made James Bond just that. 007 was a ruthless man with not enough conscious to care about those he killed but enough of a conscious to save those that he could and mourn those who he could not. It was the first and often the last side that people saw of James. Most of them never saw that soft sweet smile of him. None of them heard that honest laughter when he was bearing his soul openly. 007 served a purpose even outside of the mission. 007 was Queen and Country and the mission.

And yet, away from Queen and Country James was so much more than the tool he had become.

Away from Queen and Country, Quinton’s James was soft and gentle and quiet. He laughed softly at the terrible jokes that Q made with an honesty that couldn’t be found in too many people. He snored lightly when he’d had too much to drink. He shouted at the TV with such a passion that it was hard to believe his life revolved around anything other than the football game he was watching. He cooked, poorly but not so bad that Quinton would ever turn down his meals. He did the housework when he wasn’t too battered or tired from a mission. He wore jeans and shirts, not one for suits when he wasn’t on the job. He held Quinton at night when they were both in bed, cats exiled to the lounge and the heating turned up to keep them all warm. He always endeavored to leave enough hot water for Quinton to be able to shower, but it seemed an eternal struggle to do so. James liked his eggs sunny side up and always liked to sneak a shot of whiskey into his tea of a morning. He grumbled at stoplights and let pedestrians across the road when he came to roundabouts.

James Bond was as pig headed and stubborn as he was kind and compassionate. He was both sides of a coin that nobody could ever hope to fully understand. But most importantly, he was Quinton’s and Quinton was his.

Their relationship had happened all at once; it started with casual banter after a mission, James bringing back a small portion of the equipment he’d been given at the start of it, and what he had returned had been broken. It was nothing new for the double O agent and Q had berated him for turning a simple mission into such a complete mess. Bond had responded casually, brushing off Q’s complaints by deeming all the wanton destruction necessary. From there, they had parted, but as Quinton had gone to leave that day Bond had reappeared, standing by the exit, leaning against the wall in such a way that it wouldn’t have been a far stretch to suggest he’d been waiting a long while.

“Ah, Q.” His voice was pleasant, conversational, but still every inch dripping with a hidden motive somewhere under that sneaky smile. Q was used to as such and knew before anything had been suggested that Bond was obviously fishing for something. The man was never so pleasant without a hidden motivation. Not to him, anyway. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“No, of course not.” Quinton had returned. “What an oddity, me leaving MI6 via the appropriate exit at the end of my shift.”

“Your shift ended two and a half hours ago.” James had been keeping tabs as it were, though Q couldn’t find it in himself to be worried about the action. Something about it captured his heart, that damnable crush for the worlds biggest bachelor playing with his emotions, telling him to linger rather than simply walk on by. 007 had waited for him, and he wasn’t a man to wait for anything. It made him special, Quinton had supposed. Special, yes, but he could have never predicted just how special he was to James, not in that moment and not for several more.

“My shift ended when I decided to end it.” Quinton bit back finally, managing to calm those illicit thoughts. “I am the Quartermaster after all, I do have control over such things.” The laugh that came from James was unlike anything Q had heard before, soft velvet, a low rumble more relaxed than he had ever thought James Bond capable of.

“Right then.” James clapped a hand on Quinton’s back, far more familiar than they had ever been with one another. “You’ve just finished your shift and I fancy a drink. Care to join me?” Quinton’s heart said no, screamed no, told Quinton to turn and dismiss the man with a snarky remark, to not allow himself such utter heartbreak for a moment of blissful indulgence. He couldn’t do it to himself, couldn’t become caught up in the seductive web that James Bond spun. It was unhealthy, not good for the mind and ever worse from the heart. Still, just maybe…

“Yes.”

—

 

Somewhere in those moments, the indulgences as Quinton had taken to viewing them as, something more than a fleeting infatuation happened. It was if rather than there being any fixed point that gave way to a relationship it simply happened. One day they were drinking together, Q doing his best to not stumble over his words as James and he talked of their hobbies, of work, of life, and then the next… the next moment Quinton was in Bond’s flat only it wasn’t Bond’s strictly, it was theirs. Their flat, Their flat with Q’s cats -Bond would never lay claim to those- their wardrobe and one bed for them to sleep. When they woke up beside each other they would have breakfast, kiss each other as they got to work and part ways. James would collect Quinton after work and they would go home, have dinner and fall into bed entangled around one another like school boys, laughing and mapping each others bodies out.

  
In the times where Bond was away fighting for England Q sat quietly in his flat, tired and worrying away at the cuff of his cardigan. He preyed for Bond’s safe return and cleaned the house until it shone, a nervous tick he never had managed to shake. He would count the minutes until James’ plane land and have him in their flat not a moment later than when James should have been home; where they would then hold each other until they fell asleep on the couch, in the bed, on the floor, wherever it was that they landed.

They were 007 and his Quartermaster and then they were simply James and Quinton. All at once, they had become they instead of he and him. Inseparable and so deeply in love that it was impossible to think of a time when there had been anything else.

\--

“I’m thinking a holiday is in order after this one.” James was in the middle of push-ups, Quinton on the couch working from home, the gentle tap of keys breaking the otherwise fairly silent afternoon. “The shoulder is giving me trouble again.”

“Then stop doing push-ups,” Quinton offered without looking up. “Stop putting pressure on the thing, James, you’ll only do yourself more damage.” James responded by moving to one handed push-ups rather than stopping completely. A compromise. Both of them knew that he wouldn’t actually stop, James always pushed himself too far, something that Quinton had berated him on hundreds of times. He took his job seriously, as did Quinton, pushing until he broke, learning his limits and constantly striving to be better. It would be their undoing, Quinton was sure of it. Their like-minded perfectionism would ruin them both one day.

“A holiday.” James repeated, opening the conversation back up, pulling Quinton from his thoughts. “I think it’d be nice.”

“Where do you want to go?” Quinton stopped briefly, looking up over his laptop to James who was still duiful as ever, working to strengthen himself. At least he’d stopped using his bad shoulder.

“Somewhere quiet, preferably.” James offered.

“So not America then.”

“No thank you. Somewhere secluded, an island maybe.” James grunted, pained. Pausing to pull himself up onto his knees, James rubbed at his sore shoulder. A pause, and then;

“What about Bora Bora? That was lovely last year.” A smile formed on James’ lips as he suggested it. Yes, that was the place it seemed. It was a place that both James and Quinton loved to visit, the beautiful condos over water, silent and secluded. Full of fond memories and sleepless, lustful nights. There was something else hidden in the smile, something that James obviously had no intention of sharing with Quinton but rather than question it, Quinton simply moved to book tickets.

“When do you want to leave?” Standing, James walked over to Quinton, picking up the laptop and setting it on the table.

“Don’t you worry about that, I’ll book everything.”

James was definitely up to something but Quinton couldn’t find it in himself to care. If James was up to no good, it only meant something fun later on. He knew that he could trust James with whatever devious thing he was planning and he knew ever better that asking wouldn’t provide him with answers. No use interrogating a trained double O agent after all.

Leaning downward, careful of his aching shoulder, James kissed Quinton firmly, holding him as if he was James’ whole world. He was always so gentle, even when he was rough, treating Quinton like the most precious of jewels that he couldn’t help but to touch. It made Quinton shiver, sending arousal through his body like he’d been struck by lightening. Pulling away, James turned his head, leaning in even further to whisper into Quinton’s ear, stubble scratching at his lobe.

“Let’s go to the bedroom, Dove.”

—

The first time that James had called him Dove, the man had been blind drunk, near inconsolable, speaking in circles, clinging to the bottle of whiskey as if his life depended on it. The mission had been awful, more civilians dead than could be counted, the family who had sheltered Bond tortured alongside him, his left shoulder dislocated and damaged almost beyond repair, his mind equally as damaged. Quinton had found James in the flat, a wreck in every sense. A man still waiting for rescue, trying to search out for anything real to grab, nonsense spilling from his lip.

“Quinton.” His voice wrecked, hours of torture still evident from his raw, damaged voice. “Quinton, Dove, God, no you don’t want to be here.” He was lost, somewhere between the safe and protected walls of their flat and the small filthy pit they had kept him in. “Dove, please… please you don’t want to be here.” He seemed to reach out before pulling back, trying to protect Quinton from a threat that was no longer there.

Sitting down beside James, Quinton reached out for the empty bottle and sat it aside, replacing it with his hand in James’ trying to pull him back to reality, trying to guide him out of it.

“You’re safe, James. You’re home.”

“They’re not. They- I- They’re all dead because of me, they were killed because they helped me, failed the mission, too many casualties to report. You should go, I don’t want to lose you too. Please, Dove. Before they come back. I’ll protect the secrets, I won’t tell a soul, just leave, don’t let them… too many casualties to report, the whole village, they tortured- I- 007, MI6…”

  
It continued like that for an hour, James relaying broken parts of his debriefing to Quinton, zoning in and out. He had been given a week off, but Quinton wondered if James needed more than that. His mind was too far gone to have only a week off, not that James would allow anymore time than that, the stubborn bastard. Once he had calmed though, Quinton had managed to lead James to the shower and then to bed. Clean of the grime he’d accumulated from the travel back and the sweat from his hazy panic attack. When James woke in the morning he acted as if nothing had happened, not uncommon for the agent who hated to show weakness, even alone with Quinton. The name however stuck. Dove. Even months later it was still there, Dove. A nickname that Quinton couldn’t make heads or tails of, eventually concluding that only James himself would be able to explain.

 

“Why Dove?” Quinton had asked. James was carving up a watermelon, it was a hot summers day and he’d enthusiastically demanded that they get one. That night where he had cried and lost himself so far down the rabbit hole had long since past now, a feint memory from months ago and all but forgotten by James.

“I thought it was obvious?” James pulled himself a piece of watermelon free, taking the time to Saviour it’s taste before offering Quinton up a piece. He declined, watermelon and computers didn’t often mix well.

“Not to me, I can’t work it out.”

“The Dove showed Noah to land, it saved him.”

“To paraphrase the bible, yes, I suppose so.” Quinton nodded along. “So then what you’re saying is that I’m your Dove?”

“You’re my Dove.” James nodded.

It was strange, but Quinton had never been one to question James too hard on his methods or ways of thinking. He was James’ Dove as it were, and he’d do his best to always guide him home. If it were important enough of a name for James to give Quinton, he’d do his best to live up to his namesake. Guiding James through the storms he faced until he was back home and safe. Always until he was back home and safe.

—

The mission was a disaster, James once in hot pursuit of his target now fleeing the scene some woman on the motorbike with him no doubt clinging onto him for dear life. James had promised her a safe way out of the mess and she’d confessed an undying love to him. Fairly normal as far as James’ interactions with women went, even with the danger of being shot a dozen times looming in the background. Quinton was in James’ ear as calm as could be, giving directions to the highway, to a way out. He was guiding him home. The mission had gone to hell but that didn’t mean that James had to.

“Your next left, 007.” The green blinking dot on the map in front of him sped towards the exit, James cursed, the sound of serving there to tell Quinton that his agent was in danger. His heart skipped a beat, but keeping his cool, Quinton simply waited. He’d pulled 007 out of many situations, he wasn’t about to let this one be any different.

“Left won’t work, Q, they’ve got it blocked.” James had to shout it to be heard over the roar of wind from the bike, the words a strain to hear even then.

“You need to get down the mountain, there aren’t any other exits 007, you’ll have to improvise.” Improvisation, if you asked anybody, was 007s forte. If anybody could get themselves out of a sticky situation it was James, Quinton knew that. He could rely on James to follow orders and think on his feet. The two of them together worked as a superb team, one of the most efficient in MI6 and most importantly, Quinton always got his James back home safe. Battered and bruised sometimes, but safe.

There was a sickening sound that sounded too much like screeching metal against tarmac, too much like a body being thrown at a high speed. The woman was screaming in the background, now distant, far away from Bond and the comm line. The woman who had been on the bike with James he realises and Quinton knows too well that if she’s been thrown, so has James. It’s a sick realisation, understanding that his agent’s life is now in a great deal of danger, that James, his James is now in the line of fire and possibly too injured to fight.

There were several gunshots in fast succession, a automatic weapon of some sort and then silence. The screaming has stopped, shes gone.

“Bloody buggering shit.” James’ voice is like a breath of air, Quinton lets go of the counter, relaxing his hands, fingers sore from holding on quite so tight. He’s lent in further than he has meant to, pushing his laptop slightly, and he has to pull it back to himself to continue working. The mission isn’t over yet, there’s still his agent to extract. He still has to guide Bond home.

“007,” Quinton does his best to keep his voice professional, to keep it calm. “Report.”

“Tatiana is dead.” Collateral, Quinton forces himself to remember. She’s nothing but collateral at this point in time. “The bike is totaled, I took the wrong route, threw us both off the road, I’m half way down the damn road. I couldn’t have saved her” He’s panting, running. Bond needs to find cover if he’s going to make it out. He needs to regather his thoughts and make a new exit plan. Quinton needs to do the same, he needs to focus on Bond, not on the mission. The mission can go to hell, he just needs to bring his agent back home safe. “I don’t have my gun.” A worry, but James has been without his weapon plenty of times. He doesn’t need a gun in his hand to be deadly; though up against men with automatic weapons, his best option is to avoid combat at all costs. “I think I can get down the cliff side if I’m careful.” It’s a hesitant suggestion, Bond knowing his restrictions just as well as Quinton does, the only difference is that Bond is liable to ignore them in the face of danger. In the face of anything really.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, 007.” Quinton cuts the idea off short. Climbing down in his state without any equipment is too much of a risk, it would be too easy for James to fall. Not to mention his shoulder, it’s far more of a risk than Quinton wants to take.

“It’s the only real option I have. Don’t worry, Quartermaster, I’m a good climber, I like to do it in my spare time.” Quinton knows that already, James and he discussed James’ love for climbing over lobster once. In some high end restaurant that James somehow got them a reservation for. James had told Quinton how he’d scoured all sorts of things as a boy, how people had more trouble getting him to come down than coaxing him up. He’s a strong climber, yes, but it’s too much of a risk/

“I want you somewhat in tact for our holiday, double O.” Quinton warned instead, trying a different approch, reasoning with James rather than with 007. “There’s no point in going to Bora Bora if you’re in a cast or four.”

“You worry to much, Q.” Came the reply, Bond’s voice was haggard, he was tired, quickly running out of energy and options. “Besides, I have plans for Bora Bora that I can’t miss.” There wass the hidden promise of something that Quinton still hadn’t been able to work out again, James teasing him with the unknown. “Alright,” James continued a moment later. “Going down, make sure you catch me if I fall.”

“I’ll have somebody there at the bottom with a trampoline.” Quinton replied lightly. Bond laughed, that honest, pure laugh of his. It calmed Quinton somewhat, but he still couldn’t help but hold his breath, preying that James could make it down alive.

“I’ll be counting on it, Dove. Make sure they put it in the right place, I’d hate to miss it.”

For several minutes there was nothing but laboured breathing, James making the slow decent, those above him still lost as to where he had gone thank any Gods that might be there to listen for that alone. He was almost at the bottom when he spoke again, sounding worse for wear, tired and sore and beat.

“How high can I fall before it becomes fatal?”

“That’s a debated subject, 007. People seem to die from heights shorter than others have survived.” Quinton doesn’t like the sound of the suggestion, ready to cut that one off, not going to allow it like he had allowed James to climb down in the first place. Falling was not an option, he’d forbid James from it if he had to, bribe the man out of the idea.

“Right, best not to fall then.” James’ voice was strained. He was holding on as best he could, his voice suggesting that he couldn’t hang on much longer. “This shoulder…” It’s muttered, barely audible.

“Do your best not to let go, 007, I’m sure you can make it, and you’ll have adequate rest after the mission. If you do let go, I promise you that you’ll be going to Bora Bora alone.” He needed James to keep going. Surely he was close to the bottom now, if he was considering simply letting go and hitting the ground, it meant that he could at least see the ground well enough. So close to getting out, Quinton wasn’t going to let James jeopardize his safety like that. His shoulder was obviously holding him back, stopping him from working at full potential, but Quinton wouldn’t allow such an excuse in the situation. James had scaled most of the way down he cliff, he could make it a little further. Quinton kicked himself for not forcing James to a doctor. After the mission, He’ll drag James down to medical. Before their holiday but after the mission, he’d have James see a doctor. No more life and death situations sprouting from preexisting missions, it was too stressful on them both.

Several more minutes in James made a small, relieved sound.

“I never thought I’d be so glad to find the ground. Home free now, I suspect” He’d gone to laugh but no sooner had he spoken the words, that promise of freedom so close, gunfire had erupted. There was a grunt from Bond shortly after, a hiss of pain and a line of expletives. “Perhaps not after all.”

“Your status.” Q demanded, his heart racing as if he’d run a marathon or scaled the cliff face with Bond. “Bond are you hit?”

“Yes. In the shoulder, I should be able to hold off the bleeding, just a scratch as far as gunshot wounds go. I’ll be alright.” There’s doubt in his voice, as if that last statement might have been a question. As if he’s asking Quinton to confirm it for him.

“Of course you will. You’ve pulled yourself through worse events.” There was more gunfire, James’ breathing quickening as he ran through the thick scrub. “That’s it, keep going west.” Quinton was sure that James could make it out. All he had to do is make it out of the area, there was a convoy waiting to pick him up, a medical team waiting to treat him at the scene as per the standard for missions. The evac was set, it had been there for over an hour waiting for Bond to arrive. MI6 ran a tight ship and took good care of it’s prime agents. His James would be safe. Through the gunfire James let out another pained gasp, this one more frightened, more desperate, the sound of his agent, his James hitting the ground sending Quinton’s blood cold.

“007?”

No response, heavy breathing from James’ side, but no verbal response from the agent.

“007, respond!” There was a weak sound from the back of James’ throat, but no words could make it through. The was struggling with every breath, every word he tried to drag out sounding like a high pitched whine. James had been shot, the sound all too reminiscent of a punctured lung, no doubt filling with blood with every breath that James took.

“James!”

“Bora Bora.” James replied, his voice so quiet that it’s almost as if he’s whispering directly into Quinton’s ear. “A nice holiday for the bo- christ- for the both of us.” His voice was so weak, low. His James fading with every word he spoke. “You’ve got to go there. The tickets are in my desk.”

  
Quinton’s hands were running over the keyboard as James spoke, he wouldn't allow James to go like that, ordering in the evac team, patching them through James’ exact location.

  
“James, you listen to me right now, you’re close to the border, hold on. The evac team is coming for you, they’re going to get you out.”

  
“Dove.” God, it was so hard for James to talk, every breath seemed more and more spaced out, every word more and more of a struggle. James was fading right there, with Quinton beside him, a thousand miles away and useless. Quinton wanted to reach out to him, to hold James’ hand and tell him to stop being an idiot, that everything was going to be okay. Everything had to be okay, he always bought his agents home. “Go to Bora Bora. Those tickets cost me a fortune” James attempted to laugh but the sound came out as a hacking cough, too much blood in his lungs, slowly drowning him. It was such a painful way to die, Quinton knew, agents had died like that before. It was always such a painful death for them. He watched the map carefully, watching the evac team slowly approach, nowhere near fast enough for his liking.

  
“James.” It was all Quinton could manage, no other words wanted to come out, his mind running at a thousand miles an hour, stopping all proper thought. “James, please.”  
“I love you, Dove. Don’t ever forget that.” He had so little time left with James, and suddenly there was so much he wanted to say to the man, so much that refused to come out of his stupid mouth. The breathing slowly died and in the quiet of Q branch, nobody dared to breathe either.

  
Quinton shut down the comms and sank to the ground. His distraught wails continued even as Mallory comes to his aid, carefully lifting him up and carries him out of the branch to somewhere more private.

James Bond is pronounced dead on the scene at 14:43 local time.

At 0200 the next morning Quinton was finally taken home, left to an empty flat where James’ scent still lingered over everything. His cats wrapped themselves around his feet and Quinton could almost hear James’ disapproval. His suit, he complained. Cat hair doesn’t really sell the whole deadly agent look, after all. The voice faded quickly, leaving Quinton in silence, in a flat too big for one person. He has no idea what to do there anymore, and rather than have dinner and turn on the telly for the football game, he dragged himself to bed, falling asleep surrounded by memories of James and that slow wheezing grunt as his lover died.

  
“I love you too.” He whispered out into the dark, hoping that wherever James had ended up, if anywhere at all, he could hear it.

  
—-

In Bora Bora, Quinton was greeted enthusiastically by staff who seem excited to see him. He forced a smile and thanked them for his room key, not going into why Bond wasn’t there with him, not that any of them seemed to notice his absence. Perhaps James had planned not to be there, that devious smile hiding a surprise that Quinton now would never know.. He couldn’t manage a smile for the staff, taking his small bag of things through to the secluded waterfront condo, unlocking the door and flicking the light on, for a moment hoping to find James there, not dead and sorry for causing him so much heartache.

  
Instead he was greeted by an empty room, a bed covered in rose petals and the empty feeling that was the death of half his body. He cleared the petals off the bed and slumped down, curling up on himself, reaching out to where Bond would be, clutching the sheet where his lover should have been. Instead he was greeted by a cold empty place. Quinton hates the fact that every day he’ll be faced with that same empty place. Every day of his life, he’d be reminded of his failure to bring James home safely. He can’t help but blame himself for his lovers death, even if people have tried to tell him otherwise. Quinton, the Quartermaster of MI6, failed in his most important task. He would never forgive himself for that.

  
On the third day of the ‘holiday’ he tried to unpack. James wanted him to go on the holiday, the best Quinton can do is try and treat it as such. Opening a drawer to put clothing into Quinton found that devious smirk, that hidden secret that Bond was keeping from him and he feels his heart shatter into even smaller pieces.  
A small box, small enough to contain only one thing in particular, put there obviously to hide it from others and underneath that, a note. Quinton picked up the box first, trembling hands working of their own accord before his mind could catch up. Inside is as much as he had expected. James had got him a ring. A small silver band, simple, elegant and with it James’ knowing smile made sense. That bastard, that wonderful, perfect bastard. Hands shaking, Quinton clung to the box, the last part of James he’d ever have there in his hand and in that drawer. Tears already soaking his shirt, Quinton reached down for the note, unsure if he were ready to read it, but needing some new part of James to replace all the nightmares he couldn’t escape.

_Proposal speech - Please have this with the ring, I don’t want him to find either in the house, I’m trying you to keep it safe._

  
James’ handwriting is unmistakable. It was almost too much, part of Quinton wanted to toss both the note and the Ring back into the drawer, he wanted to shut it and pretend he never found them there. He wanted to hide away from the reality of what James had been ready to do. What James could never do now that Quinton had failed him.

_Quinton. I love you, more than I’ll ever really admit. No matter how many times I say it, I love you more than I could ever express. You’re my world, my heaven, you’re my Dove._

  
He’d scratched out around third of a page of something, obviously not happy with what it said. Quinton could make out the words ‘retired’ and ‘You’ll always come before everything else’ but he’d covered the rest too well to be able to read. He’d wanted it to be perfect for Quinton. James had always stressed when trying to impress Quinton, always trying to make sure everything ran as smoothly as possible, it had been endearing. It still was endearing, even with the heartbreak. Quinton couldn’t help but smile bitterly at the letter he had never been supposed to see.

  
_All I want, if you’ll take me, is to show everybody that you are mine and I am yours. I want you to always know how much I love you, regardless of where in the world I might be. I’m done with the double O project, all I want is you. Will you marry me, Quinton?_

  
Several lines down James’ obvious attempt to try and lighten the mood broke Quinton completely.

_Please say yes, this ring was expensive._

  
Nodding, Quinton felt his legs buckle underneath him, felt his whole body give into the pain, shaking on the floor clutching the messily written letter in one hand and the ring in its box in the other.

  
“Yes, God James you idiot yes I’ll marry you.” Looking out the window to the water surrounding their condo, he couldn’t help but feel that the dove had failed James. Here he was on dry land, but James was nowhere to be found. And yet he was everywhere, there in the condo, in the corner of Quinton’s eye, at work when it was busy and all of Q branch was a rush. There now in his hand, on a messy scrap of paper and there in the silver band, a promise that he would always be there for Quinton. But he wouldn’t, he’d never be there again. Quinton had failed James. He’d been unable to save him, unable to bring him back. He couldn’t get down on one knee and ready his sappy, perfect letter to Quinton. He couldn’t smile and tilt his head and hope for the best. James couldn’t hold Quinton as he slid the ring onto his finger. He was gone. Quinton was alone.  
Quinton only wished that he could reach out and touch his James one more time. All he wanted was to be able to face James one last time, to pour all of his love out, to let James know, to make sure that he knew. I love you, I love you, I love you. He was half a man without James, lost and back to what he had been before. Half. Unfinished. I love you, I love you, I love you.

  
Perhaps, Quinton thought, staring out into that endless ocean the condo was perched above, if he swam far enough out into the ocean, he could reach out and touch James. He could hold him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully it didn't jump around too much, there were a few things I wanted to include in the fic but I didn't want to make it multi-chapter so I tried to slot it in neatly around what was going on in the plot. I hope it made sense and didn't just seem like word vomit on the page >.


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